


draco malfoy doesn't know he's an asshole

by seriople



Series: The Makings of a Malfoy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Character Development, F/M, M/M, Malfoy Family Feels, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining, Pureblood Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-30 00:43:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11452440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriople/pseuds/seriople
Summary: How To Be A Malfoy (by Draco Malfoy):1. Malfoys are not weak.2. Malfoys are never late.3. Malfoys always know what to say.4. Malfoys are the priority.5. In the case of Essa Sterling, this list has been declared null.Or: the summer before Fifth Year, Draco meets someone that makes him smile too much and care too little. Complete.





	1. Chapter One

* * *

Banquets for the Sacred Twenty-Eight were once exciting, but have long since worn off on Draco.

He can still remember his first banquet, when Mother spent hours dressing him in robes and Father lectured him on acceptable conversation topics. Although he now dresses himself, Father continues this tradition to this very day.

“If the Sterlings should decide to show, do not ask about Margaret-”

“Actually, that won’t be necessary,” Mother chimes in. “There’s a rumor that Margaret Sterling has returned with a daughter in tow.”

Not missing a beat, Father chuckles. “Has she managed a husband, or is the child a bastard?”

"Mrs Parkinson tells me the husband is deceased.” Mother straightens out Draco’s tie, fussing over him. She pulls slightly at his collar. “Don’t ask about the husband, Draco.”

“I won’t,” he promises, and disengages himself from her fretting fingers. She holds on until the last moment, as if she can keep him from getting older. “I’m going to floo now.”

The table is long and arranged by alphabetical order. Draco sits by Mother, as usual, and rearranges the name cards so his right hand seat is for Theodore. Across from him, the Hufflepuff -- Macmillan -- keeps his gaze set firmly at his lap, trying his best to avoid Draco’s eye. It's common knowledge that the Macmillans have muggle sympathies, but they still attend each banquet.

“Alistair and Cordelia Nott,” the doorman announces.

Theodore’s stepmother is pretty and young; nobody would mistake her to having blood relations with Theodore himself. Alistair is another story: sweaty and overweight, his robes are barely able to bundle him together, and he has a large hooked nose not unlike Professor Snape’s.

As soon as Theodore Nott’s name is called, Draco sees him linger at the top of the stairs for a second before he catches his eye. He sits next to him and mutters something about Pansy, who later manages to squeeze herself only five seats away from Draco.

She had asked him to take her, but he’d ignored her owl. Escorting witches to Sacred banquets is a disastrous business; he’d have to find new robes that matched her dress or her eyes or some other nonsense.

Pansy is, quite frankly, not worth the effort.

Before long there are only a few notable holes in the table: the Shacklebolts, likely doing business; the Weasleys, traitors to their blood and status; the Longbottoms, because their only son never did learn to run with the right crowd; both Andromeda and Sirius Black, long since blasted off the family tree; and the Sterlings.

“Maybe Margaret is still in America and the entire family decided not to go out of shame,” Theodore snickers, and Draco smirks.

He proves himself wrong not ten seconds later, when the doorman announces the arrival of the oldest Sterlings. The entire banquet is watching out of the corner of their eyes, awaiting one -- no, two -- supposed arrivals. Several Sterlings come and go, including one of his housemates.

“Garrick Sterling.”

Draco tries not to look away in disgust, but fails. Garrick is short and scrawny, with buzzed hair and a bulbous nose. He seems to have taken the worst qualities of his parents and combined them to spawn a truly hideous excuse of offspring.

More Sterlings are announced, one after another, until one name catches his interest.

“Margaret Sterling.”

The last time anyone had seen Margaret Sterling had been fifteen years ago, when she'd ran off to the States and, supposedly, married into a famous Pureblood family. But she is not being escorted...

A low murmur ripples through the table as a tall, skinny woman appears at the doorway. Her features are sickly stern and the trademark mustard yellow Sterling hair on her head is covered with a large hat.

She wears a conservative dress the color of mud that matches her eyes, and surveys the room with a learned wariness. She looks like a Sterling, through and through; the years in America seems not to have changed her. Her heels clack against the wooden stairs.

“And now for the daughter,” Mother murmurs, and Mrs Nott laughs in amusement.

“Vanessa Sterling.”

 _Vanessa,_ Draco has time to think, _what an untraditional name_ ,  before she appears at the top of the staircase. For a second he thinks that Margaret must be playing a joke; Mrs Nott has gone silent. 

Vanessa Sterling has long, wavy brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her skin is a healthy tint of gold, and the dress she is wearing is more of a gown: cut almost enough to be indecent, cinched at the waist and billowing out to the ground, rippling as she makes her way down the stairs.

Vanessa Sterling has decided to show to the banquet, fatherless and ringless -- the fourth finger on her right hand bears no sign of her family's emblem.

Draco has seen pretty girls, with both pure and tainted blood; he has never seen a girl like her anywhere. She is absentmindedly smiling, unaware of the uncharacteristic silence from the banquet.

“It’s safe to say she takes after her missing father,” Aunt Bellatrix says loudly.

Amused, nervous titters escape their section of the table. Draco is still watching her as she descends the staircase and strides to the table. She walks like a cat, graceful and uncaring of her surroundings.

When she gets to her chair, Garrick drops his napkin in haste as he prepares to pull it out for her. She puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down, and flicks her wrist easily.

The chair slides out by itself, no wand in sight.

Next to him, Nott curses spectacularly. Draco feels an inkling of shock; simultaneously nonverbal, wandless magic at all, much less before Fifth Year? Impossible, and yet-

“Draco,” Mother says with a knowing look, and he returns his attention back to Mr Ollivander, who asks about Quidditch.

He tells Mr Ollivander about his training, despite the Quidditch Cup from the year before being canceled due to the Triwizard Tournament.

Despite it all, he cannot help but sneak looks at Vanessa Sterling, who is currently talking to Slughorn with a lovely smile on her face.

After the banquet is over, the tables fold themselves away, and Draco ponders how he can go see if Vanessa Sterling is as perfect up close as she is far away. In his experience, there are no completely attractive faces; there is always a flaw. He himself finds his own nose spreads just a centimeter or so too large for his liking when he smiles.

“I’m going to talk to her. Distract Pansy,” Draco hisses to Theodore, staring at Rosier. Due to his unfortunate luck in having the letter R quite close to S, Rosier has been able to make eyes at Vanessa all evening.

“Hello, Professor Slughorn,” Draco greets, effortlessly digging his elbow into the soft flesh of Rosier’s stomach and allowing himself into the tight circle. To his satisfaction, the other boy leaves in a hurry.

“Have you ever considered returning to your teaching position? Although Snape is not unskilled, your classes were far more compelling. I'd enjoy having you as Head of House for more than just my first year.”

Slughorn gives him a gummy smile. “Wonderful thoughts, Mr Malfoy! However much I enjoyed Hogwarts, I do find my position of retirement to my liking. I was just talking to Essa about the potion and Herbology skills of indigenous peoples. Ilvermorny is quite different from Hogwarts in several ways. I find it fascinating.”

A bit caught off guard by her nickname, Draco turns to her, extending his hand in a practiced, casual manner. “I don’t suppose I’ve introduced myself. I’m a Malfoy, you see. Draco Malfoy.”

She gives him a grin, flashing white teeth. “Essa Sterling.” She hesitates for just a fraction of a second before her last name, so quick that he almost misses it; he folds this information away in the corner of his mind. Perhaps she had gone by her father's surname, in which case the switch is most suspicious.

She is tall enough that he does not have to look down very much, a feat that few accomplish. Her hand is cool in his.

“Do you go to Hogwarts? I’ll be a Fifth Year in September.”

Her American accent peeks out more and more as she continues speaking. He’s heard of American accents, but has never experienced one in real life. He finds it odd, but intriguing.

As she talks, he notes of her freckles, likely the effect of spending too much time in the sun. Perhaps she plays Quidditch as well. 

He affirms to her question, informs her that he will also be a Fifth Year, and smoothly inquires her to as if she will try out for the Quidditch team.

“I want to try out for Seeker,” she says, and he barely refrains himself from smirking in amusement. He supposes the old saying is right: it is impossible to find a woman with both brains and beauty.

“Please excuse me saying so, but I don’t believe that is possible,” he tells her. “I am the Slytherin Seeker. However, there are two openings for Beaters.”

“The positions don’t reopen every year?”

“No,” he says. “And I don’t believe that you are suited to be a Beater.”

“I’ve been a Seeker back in America since I was eleven,” she says, and he is vaguely impressed. She does not speak of this as an accomplishment, rather stating it as a fact, and he is even more intrigued. 

During his silence, she speaks again. "Have there been any young Seekers at Hogwarts?"

"Yes," he replies evenly.

"How many and of what house?" 

"One; he is a Gryffindor." Draco tries not to grind his teeth together.

She blinks those large, glittering eyes at him. “Slytherin and Gryffindor don’t get along,” she notes.

“You would be safe in your assumptions. Have you been sorted into Slytherin yet?”

“Not yet; I’ll be sorted when school starts. Why are you so sure that I’m going to be a Slytherin?”

“You’re a Sterling,” Draco says impatiently. She _is_ American, after all; she will learn.

Her eyes narrow just a bit and her smile slips slightly. Before he can think about the meanings for too long, she turns back to Slughorn, who is watching their conversation with an indulgent expression.

“Professor Slughorn, what is your opinion of the Triwizard Tournament?”

For several minutes Draco attempts to chime in with his own thoughts and control the discussion, but Essa is clearly untrained in the etiquette department. She does not nod wordlessly and bat her eyelashes the way Pansy does whenever their parents get together; she raises an eyebrow in challenge.

At first it is the most annoying thing he's ever experienced. However, after Slughorn wanders off and Essa continues to point out errors in his logic, Draco begins, surprisingly, to enjoy himself.

He hardly gets conversations like this, ones that require him to be on his guard at all times and force him to think. Furthermore, Essa plainly knows what she's talking about.

She is polite when she points out that cursing the dragon, as Draco  says he would've done at the first task, is useless when it comes to the thick hide. She is charming when she tells him that she herself feels like the best alternative would be to fly around and over it instead, and that no, in America they only read of the tasks, not of the winners and their actions, why do you ask?

Draco is a bit flustered, and therefore does not tell her that even Krum, the winner at the real tournament last year, would probably admit it is a good idea. 

"I wish Diggory, the Hogwarts champion, had thought of that," he says instead, a little bit awkwardly, and feeling a sense that he might not be the one in control of the conversation for once. She smiles at this, not in triumph but in embarrassment at his slightly hesitant praise.

They talk about several other things, such as the Quidditch World Cup last year, and so it seems to that she had traveled to Europe for it. They talk about where the game would've gone if Bulgaria's team had played not Ireland but England, and have a good laugh over it.

Margaret Sterling walks over to them as they have just breached the subject of the importance of the Snitch, and calls Essa away, eyeing Draco the way a cat might at a mouse.

"See you around," Essa tells him, a smile causing her cheek to dimple, and Draco nods, trying not to look at it.

Afterwards Daphne Greengrass comes up and tries to say something unexciting. Bored, he leaves as soon as Mother touches his elbow instead of politely excusing himself. The second his feet land in the Malfoy’s fireplace, his parents have their attention on him.

“What do you think of the Sterling girl?” Father asks. “Margaret offered her hand in marriage after the banquet, but I wasn’t confident of her blood status nor her behavior. The Sterlings are a powerful family and a union would be beneficial; I, however, do not wish to risk our standings.”

Draco knows, of course, that his fate has been tied to Pansy's for the entirety of his life, but a glimpse at another option has him trying not to smile.

“She is adept at conversation and social orders," he says, and then ducks his head down, feeling the tips of his ears turn hot. "I quite like her."

Mother has a smile in her voice. "Margaret told me that Vanessa's blood tests have come back pure." She places a hand on his shoulder. "Lucius, the Parkinsons don't have power over trade like the Sterlings do, and we've got enough Ministry relations to spare. Besides, it seems I'm not the only one that liked the look of Vanessa."

The heat in Draco's ears spreads rapidly to his face.

“I’ll talk to her when our families convene.” Father hesitates before continuing. “She seems too trusting to be a Pureblood. It would truly be a shame if her blood was anything but pure; it would be in your favor to discipline her, else she might end up as a Hufflepuff.”

Draco shivers in horror at the thought. "She disagrees with me quite often, it's unbecoming of a Hufflepuff. She appears to be intelligent."

“She will learn, Lucius,” Mother says, touching Father's arm in an effort to console him. “She didn't grow up in the healthiest of households, I remind you.” Her tongue clucks in pity. “To be raised away from other Purebloods and neglected of her own culture… it's a miracle she even managed to survive at the banquet.”

“The others can take her under their wings,” Draco says, pushing away the thought of Essa swathed in yellow and black. “I'll make sure of it.”

“Perhaps a bit of Slytherin influence over the summer is all she needs to be sorted into our house. Malfoys do not marry Hufflepuffs. Look at me, son.” Father says, gripping his son’s chin and lifting it so their eyes meet.

Draco looks up into his father’s face, so like his own, and struggles not to tear his gaze away. Lucius’s voice lowers. “It does not matter how beautiful the girl is. If she is sorted into Hufflepuff, she will never be your wife.”

“She won't be. Essa is very cunning,” Draco lies smoothly. 

This is a lie. Essa is intelligent and bright and amusing, but she is not ambitious; if she were, she would not have befriended him, the resident Slytherin Seeker. A Slytherin or even a Ravenclaw would have started connections with the others on then Slytherin Quidditch team, not waste time chatting away with a competitor.

She will never make it in Slytherin at this rate. She will be crushed underneath her obliviousness towards society's mannerisms. Without the guidance of his Pureblooded circle, she will crash and burn. If they get started soon, she has a better chance at survival.

Perhaps Father ignores the coolness in his expression, for his fingers release their bruising grip and return to his staff. “Very well, son. Do not forget that the Malfoy legacy rests on your shoulders. You are excused.”

Draco bids his parents good evening with a bow, eager to abandon the conversation.

 


	2. Chapter Two: The Visitation

The Sterling Manor is quite large, though not as large as Malfoy Manor.

This is the first thing Draco thinks as Elizabeth Sterling opens the door. Vanessa’s grandmother is dressed elegantly, a long feather extending jauntily from her hat.

The Sterling women all wear hats to hide the unflattering shade of yellow they have as hair, except, of course, for Vanessa.

Draco wonders if she even realizes her good fortune as Elizabeth kisses Mother on both cheeks, the two of them exclaiming at the other with fake smiles.

Father watches with thinly veiled amusement, and Elizabeth leads them through several large rooms into the kitchen. Portraits of mustard-haired ancestors with muddy brown eyes watch them, whispering furiously underneath their breaths.

“The Malfoy boy,” Draco hears one of them exclaim in awe, and he cannot help his proud smirk. “He’s so tall and _handsome_. Has he come for Gretchen’s hand?” 

Gretchen Sterling is to be a Third Year in his house. She bears an uncanny resemblance to her brother Garrick, and is decidedly not what Draco would ever desire for a wife.

Draco had sworn to himself, long ago when her parents had offered her hand to Mother, that he'd rather the Malfoy heir not exist at all than have to live with himself after conceiving a child with Gretchen.

“No, no,” another portrait exclaims. “Are you mad? He’s come for Margaret’s daughter, that American beauty.”

"How can he be so sure of her lineage?"

The ancestors murmur amongst themselves, and with dread, Draco can see Father’s jaw tighten.

When they reach the kitchen, Draco is slightly startled to see all the adults clustered around the large table. Elizabeth sits on the left to her husband, Roman Sterling, who is positioned at the head of the table; on one side are Garrick and Gretchen’s parents, and the other, alone besides Elizabeth, is Margaret. 

Once again he is struck by how unalike Essa is to the rest of her mother’s side; all three women at the table wear hats and have sharp, strict features. Father sits down, leaving an empty chair between him and Margaret Sterling, and Mother fills it. Margaret stands up promptly, causing the feather on her own hat to bob.

“I will lead you to Vanessa’s room,” she tells him, her voice low and scratchy in a way that is quite unattractive, especially for a woman.

He follows her as she walks up the stairs. On the third floor, he expects to stop, as he glimpses Garrick’s door slightly adjacent. He is hunched over a thick textbook, no doubt studying for a class, but Margaret puts her foot on another flight of stairs.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Margaret drawls. “Vanessa insists on an unoccupied floor.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Draco says politely, unable to accept that there is a good chance this woman will become his mother-in-law. He hopes his heir will not inherit her voice.

It is clear that the fourth floor has only been recently lived in; the walls are blank, and as they walk past several rooms, he notices that almost all of them are empty.

His curiosity climbs when Margaret leads him into several halls, and finally comes to a halt once they have reached the end of the corridor farthest from the stairs.

“She doesn’t care much for her cousins, but she’s very friendly. I have no doubt you will find her good company,” Margaret tells him, only slightly desperate -- a union would not only bring more merriment upon her house than on his, but to have her daughter be the one that joins the Malfoy family is as good as redemption in the eyes of the social court.

Draco nods as she knocks on the door.

“Vanessa, you have a visitor.” She turns her head back to him, and has to tilt her head back so far that he expects the feather to fall to the ground. Height, he supposes, is yet another thing her mother has not given her. “Go on.”

He reaches out and turns the knob as Margaret walks away.

His eyes flicker around the room as he steps in. It’s not as large as his, of course, and not as elegant.

The walls are white and bare. There is a bed, but it’s smaller than what he expects even a Weasley bed to be, and pushed almost into the wardrobe. A suitcase lays at the foot of the bed. It is half open and filled with clothes. She’s not in the room.

Preparing to make the treacherous climb back down all four flights of stairs, he turns on his heel and nearly jumps out of his skin in shock. Strung up near the ceiling right above the door is a hammock, and Vanessa watches him, one eyebrow raised.

“Good morning,” she says, and swings her legs over the side of the hammock in an effortless, practiced motion.

He manages to repeat the phrase after her, and blinks as she jumps down and lands without hitting the ground hard. She has on long, loose fitting gray pants and a jacket of the same color that is, quite frankly, much too large.

“Drake, right?”

He can not even bring himself to irritation, for he is so intrigued by her. There are many things he wants to ask her, but it would not be polite.

“Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

Essa gives him a smile so sweet he has to steady himself in his shoes. Her eyes, he notices dimly, are brown, but not the Sterling shade. Hers are a bit lighter, with flecks of blue in them that undoubtedly come from her mysterious father. 

She adopts a horrific British accent that makes him internally cringe. “Bond. James Bond.”

At his blank expression, her eyebrows draw together.

“You haven’t seen it? Well, I don’t suppose you would have.” Her accent, fortunately, is once again American.

“Who is James Bond?”

“I guess you just have to wait and find out,” she winks, looking so attractive that his body physically can not believe she exists. “Now, what brings you here to my humble abode, Draco?”

He collects himself. “I’m here to introduce you to people you will find are _beneficial_ to your behavior and status.”

“In other words, you want me to meet your friends. Oh, my,” she says, fanning herself as if the room is warm. “Aren’t you the charmer. We haven’t even reached first base yet!”

He has never been so confused in his life. Having a conversation with her, he imagines, is more difficult than playing Quidditch without the help of brooms. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a joke. I’m joking,” she says. “When are we leaving?”

“Now,” he says, replaying the last few seconds in his head and trying to catch any jokes he’d missed. He finds none. “We’re going to Diagon Alley.”

“Here, can you hold this for a second? Thanks, don’t turn around.”

She doesn’t wait for a response and thrusts the book she had been reading into his hands. Draco turns around halfway, but her fingers are at the edge of her shirt and her feet are carrying her to the suitcase.

Although tempted to watch, she will be furious if she catches him, and there is no telling what this girl, unpredictable as she is, will do. With a sigh, he faces the wall and looks down.

He takes note of the book’s title and how worn the edges are. He flips to a random page, and his eyebrows twitch. Several words are surrounded by blocks of different colors, and there are notes in the margins. Her handwriting is not cursive, but printed, and very… _spiky._

“Where are we going?” Essa asks him, her voice slightly muffled.

“The Three Broomsticks.”

“Who are we meeting?”

“Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass. They both were at the banquet, but I don't suppose you conversed with them.”

At this, she makes a sound that is accompanied by the rustling of cloth, and their conversation is over.

He busies himself with trying to find out what her book is about, and reads half of a truly puzzling line on the page. _Afterwards Squealer was sent round the farm to_ - 

He promptly shuts the book, a crease forming in between his eyebrows. There are Americans named Squealer? _How quaint_ , as Mother would sniff.

“Alright, I’m done,” she says, and he turns around, a question on the tip of his tongue. He has allowed himself one question and one question only -- after all, when faced with an enigma, there is always a thirst to solve it.

He swallows the question in shock. Standing in front of him is Vanessa, still undeniably attractive (much to his chagrin), but in a short, ripped pants and a sleeveless pink shirt.

“No.”

“No?” She cocks her head to one side, allowing a curl to bounce into her eyes, and the effect is so distracting his impatience ceases a bit.

He must give her some room to adapt; she has the potential to be greatly respected within his (and, hopefully, her) house.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s just a tank top. Why?” She turns slightly, and he almost chokes on his tongue. He can see her _bra_ in the side of that piece of cloth she calls a shirt and so much skin below her waist.

She disregards his status as not only a Malfoy but also a Pureblood, and refuses to obey him even when he clearly has the authority -- she should be infuriating to him, but he’s flustered and unsteady against her.

“You’re a… you’re a lady,” _as much as the term has been relaxed to fit you_ , “and ladies do not wear these things. Besides, your pants are too short and... broken.”

He begins to gesture at her legs, but one glance down and he thinks better of it, forcing his focus back onto her face (which, to tell the truth, is not any less distracting).

Her eyes roll as if he is the one wearing cloth that looks as if it could fall apart on her body if the wind blows, leaving her in nothing but undergarments.

“Ripped jeans  _come_ like this-”

“There are rules here that prevent you from running around like a _heathen_.” He stresses the last word, but to no effect; her eyes remain just as cheerful as ever.

They really are the color of hazelnuts, or when the sun shines through dark glass… he shakes himself.

“You must wear a skirt, in the very least, or a cloak. Get rid of that…”

“Tank top,” she supplies.

“You can’t go out like this. Purebloods have to be more _formal_.”

Her lips turn downwards at the corners in a truly distressing manner for the first time he's known her; he blinks in surprise and tries to make his voice softer.

“Why don’t you wear a skirt?”

“You’d swallow your tongue if I wore my short one, and it’s too hot out for pantyhose.”

He breathes in and out through his nose, feeling as if he is reasoning with a large child. “You have to.”

“It’s so hot,” she says, eyebrows coming together in a way that a lesser man might describe as adorable.

Draco, much to his severe displeasure, is a lesser man.

“Do you have pants that are any longer?” He finally consents.

She looks at him for a moment, and turns back to her suitcase, frown gone and replaced by an angelic expression.

He disregards the way it makes him more aware of his own heartbeat; after all, seeing a truly attractive person for the first time in one’s life registers its mark.

And if the truly attractive person becomes not only a Slytherin but his wife, well! -- that would be tremendous.

He goes to stare at the wall for another moment as she ruffles through her suitcase. “Draco,” she calls after a moment.

He likes the way his name sounds in her accent. When he turns, his eyebrows raise. “What does your shirt mean?”

She’s still wearing jeans that look like they have been through several duels, ripped at the knees and thighs, but to his relief (disappointment? not sure), they reach her ankles. They are a light blue that he’s never seen on clothing, and so tight he feels as if he’s violating her if he keeps looking. 

Essa glances down at her shirt. It’s dark gray, with a large white W firmly centered. “It’s my house shirt,” she explains, and frowns for a second. “Well, it was _,_ I guess.”

For a moment he stands perfectly still, debating with himself whether an attempt to change her out of those disrespectful pants (or rather, lack thereof) will yield results. Most likely, they will be later than they already are, and she will resort to wearing no pants at all.

He supposes he could allow her to wear those things once; after all, The Three Broomsticks is notoriously casual, and Daphne doesn't judge; he suspects Nott will love them.

“Come,” Draco tells her, not willing to wait another moment. He’d owled Theodore and Daphne earlier to meet at their usual spot in The Three Broomsticks, and Malfoys are never late.

" _A_ _ccio_ wand.”

Another question for another day, Draco thinks absentmindedly as a white-colored wand flies out of her suitcase and into her waiting fingers.

To his amusement, she pulls out the neckline of her shirt and drops the wand through. Somehow it neither shows through the shirt nor falls onto the ground.

“What did you do?” He asks, fingers tightening on her book.

She shrugs. “You wouldn’t imagine a magic shirt to not be magic,” she says breezily.

 _Oh, to bloody hell with etiquette_ , he thinks, and allows himself to ask the question that had been on his mind the second he’d read the cover of her book.

“Why do you read of agriculture?”

“I don’t,” she says, puzzled, and then her eyes fall onto the book in his hands. A laugh bursts out of her. “I can't believe you're hiding a sense of humor underneath that stuffy exterior,” she exclaims, taking the book and tossing it onto the carpet.

He decides not to address the latter part of her sentence in an act of mercy. “I see nothing humorous about my statement.”

 _Like Quidditch without a broom_.

She shakes her head, still laughing, and passes him the bowl of floo powder. “I’ll make a man out of you yet,” she says, tossing her hair behind her shoulder.

He closes his eyes, holding back his cutting remarks and trying to push down his growing disbelief. And to think that before this conversation, he had thought her dull.

“You’re reading a book by the name of _Animal Farm_ simply for entertainment.”

Although he had not asked a question, she answers. “Yes,” she says, “I am.”

Draco climbs into her fireplace, unsure whether to laugh or cry at the minuscule chance of this girl being a Slytherin, and the nagging insistence in his body that enjoys her company despite of it. He takes a handful of powder.

“The Three Broomsticks,” he states clearly, and drops the powder into the flames.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to continue writing out this plot, and maybe see where it takes me. A side note on Draco's character:
> 
> I want to try to keep Draco as in character as possible (mostly because I see a lot of randomly super nice Dracos and super desperate Dracos, especially when he's starting to become a better person). Of course, a better Draco is what I expect to be the end result, but I'm always skeptical of fics wherein it seems to happen overnight -- I want his character arc to be pretty gradual, and even then I never see him becoming a "nice guy", so to speak. I can, however, picture some side snark from him that doesn't have that "angry" cutting edge we see in both the books and the movies.
> 
> If you have some thoughts, concerns, or recommendations on Draco's character, feel free to let me know. Feedback is always appreciated.


	3. Chapter Three: The Introduction

Essa steps out of the green flames a few seconds after he dusts off his cloak. “Look, I’m in one piece!”

She has to raise her voice slightly to be heard over the din of the pub, paying no mind to the other wizards (mainly male) staring at her from their tables.

“Unfortunately,” he remarks dryly before he can remind himself that he wants her to become his wife. Much to his relief, she laughs, and he continues. “You have floo powder on your shoulder.”

She turns, the W on her shirt glittering slightly as she does so, and brushes it off. “Thanks, Draco.”

The American accent does wonders for the vowels in his name.

“Come, meet the others,” he says, face blank. “They are waiting, and we will be late.”

She takes his elbow, and he imagines he can feel the calm strength of her fingers even underneath the cloth of his white dress shirt. He imagines those fingers undoing his buttons, in his hair, skimming over his jaw. He imagines those fingers wrapped around a broom, wrapped around-

“Let me guess. Malfoys are never late?”

“Excuse me?” Draco is startled by how quickly she has managed to put him in a daze, and with only one movement.

She laughs. “I bet you have a list inside your head called _How To Be A Malfoy_ or something like that. ‘Malfoys are never late’ is number five, am I right?”

“No.” He manages to keep his voice smooth and calm, guiding her through the wizards and towards his usual booth. “It's _The Makings of A Malfoy_.”

“Was that a joke?”

He shakes his head, barely able to hold in a smile of his own when she starts laughing.

“Oh my god, it is. Your eyes are laughing at me. That was totally a joke. Not funny, but there's room for improvement.”

He tilts her head slightly in her direction. “Malfoys learn very quickly.”

“Damn, you're on a roll,” Essa says expressively, and despite never hearing the phrase in his life he can conclude the meaning.

“Over here, Malfoy!”

Draco meets Theodore’s eyes and he is suddenly reminded that they are at The Three Broomsticks to meet others. He bites back his response and speaks to the two Slytherins instead.

“This is Essa Sterling,” he announces, and although Theodore is openly staring at her, Daphne has her eyes fixed firmly on where Essa is still holding onto his elbow.

He himself feels as though all his nerves have migrated to that one spot in his body.

Daphne makes room on her side of the booth, and so Essa releases him to slide next to her with a friendly smile. Daphne, to his relief, smiles back, introducing herself and complimenting Essa’s jeans in a low murmur.

It had been a good decision not to bring in Millicent or Pansy just yet -- it will be much easier for Essa to ease into Slytherin with kindhearted Daphne on her side. Daphne herself had almost not been sorted into Slytherin, and her story gives him a bit of hope regarding Essa’s case.

“Watch who you're squeezing into the wall,” Theodore snaps as Draco sits down, shooting him a scowl.

“Have you ordered yet?” Draco asks.

Daphne shakes his head, frowning. “We didn't want yours to get cold.”

“We're drinking warm beverages?” Essa raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “I’m all for some cocoa, but it’s in the middle of summer, and I’d rather not have fiery liquid burning up my throat from the inside out.”

Draco closes his eyes, more amused than he is exasperated (although he should be feeling only the latter, this is a sensation he has begun to associate with her). However, the other two Slytherins chuckle in delight -- and, perhaps, surprise.

“I’m not quite sure what ‘cocoa’ is,” Daphne says, smile in his voice. “But Butterbeer is quite literally the only thing you can order here, unless you're interested in gillywater.”

“Nobody is,” Theodore chimes in.

“Have you forgotten about dear old McGonagall?”

Draco’s comment earns more laughter, although Essa seems puzzled. Of course. “Professor McGonagall teaches Transfigurations at Hogwarts,” he explains.

“Not to mention she's Gryffindor’s Head of House.” Theodore shakes his head.

“Gryffindor is the house of bravery and chivalry,” Essa remarks.

Draco scoffs. “The reality of it is that Gryffindors are a whole lot of attention-seekers. Nearly all the professors favor Gryffindors, especially the Potter lot. In First Year, we had the most points, but Headmaster Dumbledore announced us winner and then awarded Gryffindor with just enough points for them to steal the house cup.”

Theodore’s jaw tightens at the memory. “And don't even get me started on the Professors Three.”

“The Professors Three?”

“Professors Black, Lupin and Potter. All Gryffindors,” Draco answers.

Theodore groans. “Professor Potter’s son is practically self-declared Gryffindor royalty, and they treat him that way.”

“Professor Black and Professor Potter are the heads of the Dueling Club. It's been made mandatory for DADA-”

“ _Dada_?” Essa repeats incredulously, her accent twisting the word so it sounds hysterically like _dah dah_.

Daphne struggles to smother her laughter, despite the topic. “Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Lupin teaches it. He's not so bad, but he lets Black and Potter do anything he wants during Dueling Club.”

“‘Harry Potter! You're _just_ like your father, did you know? Fifty points to Gryffindor, just because your jawline resembles his in the right light! Oh, _Nott_. Just dropped your wand, did you? That'll be one hundred points from Slytherin!’”

“That sucks,” Essa says, the expression so odd that Draco is startled from his frustration.

Daphne nods gravely, chewing on her lip. “It does.”

The four are silent for a brief moment until Draco stands up, offering his elbow out to Essa. “I expect your first time drinking butter beer to be as equally amusing as your choices in clothing.”

Her eyes narrow, but that smile comes back, ruining the effect. As she takes his arm, she asks, “Was that meant as a compliment?”

“You're wearing a W on your poorly made shirt.”

“It's one hundred percent cotton,” she protests as they reach the bar. He can feel the stares as he usually does, but they are not on him for once. A pretty girl is on his arm, and nobody is paying attention to whom the arm belongs to.

He does not blame them.

It is a busy afternoon; Madam Rosmerta is nowhere to be seen.

“You would expect,” he says to Essa, voice pitched to carry, and several heads turn their way, “that Purebloods would be served with respect in this-”

“Draco, stop,” Essa says quietly, serious. He tells himself it is the shock of her unsmiling face that halts the words in his mouth, and not her own request for him to discontinue his sentence.

He shakes himself. “We are Purebloods,” he tells her sternly. They do things differently in America, no doubt. She must learn. “We are the priority.”

Her fingers leave his elbow. She crosses her arms. “Malfoys are never impolite.”

“That's different,” he tries to explain, but she raises an eyebrow.

“Calm _down_ , Draco. Besides, the wait will give you more time to tell me if Butterbeer has any alcohol in it. It'll be three years before I'm allowed to have any here.”

“You're fourteen?”

She shrugs. “I have an August birthday. It's very inconvenient for things like this.”

“I agree; my birthday was merely a fortnight ago. As for the alcohol: don't fret. Butterbeer might lower your inhibitions, but only if you cannot limit yourself -- the effect of firewhiskey is much worse.”

“The beginning of June,” she muses, ignoring half of what he's said, and suddenly a wicked grin crosses her face. “I guess the start of school year was really… _fun_ for your parents.”

It takes him a few seconds to catch her meaning, and the expression on his face when he does sends her into a fit of giggles.

“That,” he manages, trying desperately to reign in his imagination and emotions, “is an image I never needed to possess.”

“You have my deepest condolences,” she laughs. “Hey, they sell pumpkin juice here.”

He scoffs. “Pumpkin juice is a poor man’s liquor.” He pauses. “It's also, quite frankly, appalling.”

“So you've tried it?”

 _Damn_.

“Yes,” he says impatiently, knowing exactly where things are going, and tries to think of a clever response in time. He fails.

Her eyes glitter like the stars of which he had been named after.

“But it's a poor man’s drink.” At his silence, a little mischievous smile brings to tug up the corner of her mouth. “Has the Malfoy vault been looking empty in recent times?”

“My manor could fit over five of yours,” he reminds her. “And your room is smaller than my wardrobe.”

“Curious, considering that you wore that shirt last night.”

“Been taking note of my clothes, haven't you?”

“You wish, Draco,” she teases, studying his carefully arranged face. “Oh, come on. If you laughed once in awhile it wouldn't hurt anyone. Shock them, sure, but that's a given.”

He shakes his head, leaning against the bar. He glances at her once, but has to quickly look away, for her smile is too blinding not to return even for him.

“Your eyes are doing that laughing thing again! If you hold it in for too long, you could explode, you know.”

“Maybe then I could escape you.”

Her aggravated response is cut off by Madam Rosmerta finally catching sight of them and hurrying over. For the first time in his life, he wishes he had not been able to order so quickly.

“Mr Malfoy,” she greets tersely. “How many butter beers shall it be this time?”

“Four,” he answers, tossing the appropriate amount of sickles onto the table. “The wait was-”

“Very quick, especially considering the crowd,” Essa interrupts. She  flicks her wrist and the sickles stack themselves in front of Madam Rosmerta, who looks impressed and restudies her face in an effort to identify her.

“An American,” she remarks, sweeping away the stack of sickles with her palm. “I’ve heard stories that the wizards there don't need wands. Is it your first time drinking Butterbeer?”

“I'm very excited,” Essa admits. She looks as though to say something else, but Draco has long since lost interest in the conversation.

“If you excuse us, we'll be on our way,” Draco interjects. “The others are waiting-”

“And Malfoys are never late, I know,” Essa finishes, rolling her eyes. Madam Rosmerta looks to him and raises both eyebrows.

Keeping his face blank is a struggle, but he manages nicely, trying not to convey his exasperation.

“What about the Butterbeers?”

“They will be brought to our table,” he tells her, impatient.

She bids goodbye to a seemingly bemused Madam Rosmerta and walks back to the booth with him.

“I'm sorry,” she says, “I haven't managed to exchange my money yet, but I'll pay next time.”

He manages to formulate a response, trying to drown out the steady, gleeful chant of _next time, next time_ in his traitorous mind.

“Nonsense, I can easily cover-”

Essa shakes her head. “I’d feel like an awful person.”

“An argument for another day. Let's save it and come back to it later, shall we?”

She smiles at him, but he detects something not so sweet and innocent in that quick flash of teeth for the first time. Perhaps Slytherin is not so far away from her clutches after all.

“I'll hold you to that.”

“I expect no less from you.” He comes to the conclusion that the words are, indeed, true, but only as he says them.

The realization is disconcerting; somewhere along the twelve hours he'd first seen her appear in the banquet, he’s come to see her as an equal, despite the chance that she could be a Halfblood bastard and easily banish both his and her families from the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

He tries to remind himself that he is the Malfoy heir, and the Malfoy heir cannot afford to make mistakes, for his name is at risk.

And then her hand finds his arm again, gentle but never weak, and he cannot bring himself to believe that a girl like her is in any way impure.

 


	4. Chapter Four: The Straw

“Go on, drink it,” Daphne urges, sipping at her own tankard and elegantly wiping at the foam accumulated on her lips with a napkin. “It’s messy, but worth it.”

Across from her, Theodore takes a large gulp, not bothering with any napkins. When he notices her disapproving glance, he simply smirks, the foam drawing a line underneath his nose.

Draco himself prefers to wait until the foam has bubbled down, although the drink is cooler and therefore not as good at that point, but he anticipates the entertainment that Essa drinking Butterbeer will inspire.

She does not disappoint; instead of picking up the handle, she dips a finger in, swiping at the foam and putting it into her mouth.

“It’s really sweet,” she says, seemingly surprised. “Is there a straw or something?”

“Straw?” Daphne asks, putting down her napkin. “Are you referring to the Sugar Straws from Honeydukes? My sister has a taste for those, although I’ve never liked them.”

Essa blinks, mouth dropping open. “You’re so cut off from technology that you guys don’t know what straws are?”

“She means those things that horses eat, Greengrass. Why the penchant for candy?” Theodore takes another swallow of Butterbeer and glances back at Essa. “If you want to know more things about straw, Draco can tell you. His horses eat them-”

“No, I mean the thing you drink things with. And- you own horses?”

“I told you, my manor could easily fit five of yours, even with your family’s impressive standings. What else would I ride around my meadows and plains and apple orchards and-”

“A broom,” Essa says dryly, and Daphne laughs out loud. “Besides, what good is a large manor if you still have to drink Butterbeer without a straw?”

She reaches up, plucks a hair out of her head, and points at it. Immediately the hair grows longer and larger, shifting into a light, thin tube made of a material Draco is unfamiliar with.

“Look, you uncultured children. This is a straw.”

“Uncultured,” Draco mocks, but the effect is ruined by his hand, reaching out of its own accord to inspect the gadget she’s just transfigured.

He turns it, afraid of crushing it, and frowns when it gives in underneath his fingers. Right after he loosens his grip in surprise, the material pushes back up.

Essa takes it back and puts it into her Butterbeer, right through the foam. He can still see the top of the tube from where he is sitting.

Theodore peers at it, curious. “What does it do? Does it take away the foam?”

“You breathe in,” Essa says, “and the Butterbeer will go through the straw and into your mouth. It’s not normally used for drinking warm drinks, but there’s so much foam.”

She wraps her lips around the top of the straw, hollows her cheeks, and releases.

“There, see?”

“Brilliant,” Daphne cries. “May you transfigure one for me? I’ve left my wand at home, and I can’t do wandless magic as you can.”

“I want one as well, Essa,” Theodore proclaims, and Draco looks at his tankard.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like the same.”

Her answering smile is bright, and soon enough there is a tube in his drink.

He looks up at Essa through his eyelashes, but she’s drinking her Butterbeer in earnest, and so he takes a breath, puts his mouth on the top, and breathes in.

The liquid shoots up far faster than he had expected for such a flimsy contraption, and his only thought is _bollocks_ as the Butterbeer hits the back of his throat, nearly burning off his tonsils.

He shoots up straight in his seat with a shout, hacking and wheezing, hand fluttering at the truly idiotic straw. Theodore, the damned git, hits the table with his fist as he laughs, wiping at his eyes.

Daphne has both hands clasped over her mouth as she desperately attempts to reign in her giggles, and Essa -- it’s obvious Essa is amused, her teeth flashing as she asks if he is alright.

Draco understands now, her earlier comment about his eyes laughing (he had brushed it off as heartsick American poetry), for although he has seen many laugh and cry and everything in between, up until this point, he has never seen emotions in one’s eyes.

He identifies feelings through a subtle twitch in the eyebrow, or a quirking of a lip; he has never seen eyes glimmer or sparkle the way hers do.

He has been trained, ever since he could make polite conversation, what certain comments will do to one’s expression.

Taunt a Weasley of their small monetary fortune, and Theodore will flash his teeth and lift his chin as he laughs. Call Granger a Mudblood, and she scowls and turns her hands to fists. Ask Aunt Bella of her third sister, and her mouth will become a hard line.

It has been his opinion for most of his life that a face will betray even the most private of thoughts; it is weakness to allow even the slightest reaction.

And yet although reading others is almost a subconscious effort by this moment in his life, he has never seen another person wear emotions so freely and so carelessly, with reckless abandon.

From the very first sight of her, absentmindedly oblivious to the banquet’s reaction of her physical beauty, he'd been able to catalog every thought painted on her face.

This should be a weakness, but Draco finds that this makes her strong -- her unusual openness is recognized by Daphne and Theodore, albeit unconsciously, and they give their trust to her far quicker than he's ever known them to.

Slughorn is no different, so happily making conversation during the banquet to her and only her when in other circumstances he flits from seat to seat with a glass of Firewhiskey. Even, to an extent, Madam Rosmerta had been charmed, for her trained smile had softened during Essa’s short minute at the bar!

And he, notorious for his self control and harshness, feels his own body relaxing in her presence, his reactions becoming uncalculated and imprecise.

He normally shows amusement by allowing himself to smirk, but Essa draws out real smiles and genuine unsteadiness.

And her antics -- even Saint Potter cannot inspire this raw exasperation, nor this faint irritation, as she can so easily by refusing to dress the way he instructs.

He wants to know what picture her face will paint when she sleeps, or during Quidditch; he wants to watch stories tell themselves on her lightly freckled cheekbones.

And so somehow the least threatening of the four at the table has become the most dangerous to him.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” Draco proclaims, trying not to show his sudden alarm at the way she leans onto her elbows.

Father had smacked him with his walking stick enough when he was a child to knock him out of _that_ long ago, but she somehow performs the unmannered habit with elegance.

“This is a -- what truly idiotic American trend is this?”

“You went too fast,” Essa says, and he watches with thinly masked interest as she settles back into the booth, slouching. “And the British use straws too.”

“I've never heard of straws like these.” Daphne takes a delicate sip from the straw, barely blinking as she swallows. Draco scowls.

Essa raises an eyebrow. He thinks about what it means.

“Well, I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. British wizards are pretty distant from No-Maj culture. I heard Hogwarts doesn't even have wifi.”

Draco wonders dimly which part of her statement to address first.

“We call them Muggles here,” Daphne says. “Their culture must be so sad. What a pity, to not have magic.”

“I'd say they aren't worth our time,” Theodore proclaims, sucking down his Butterbeer.

Essa bites her lip and drinks her Butterbeer.

Draco muses at this, as Daphne and Theodore describe Hogwarts. If she is a blood traitor, then there will be no chance of a union, no matter her purity.

But she cannot be a blood traitor, can she? If she continues to associate herself with the Sacred Pureblooded circle? Perhaps, if the summer is willing, he can show her the truth of blood purity, and prove the uncleanliness of those with tainted blood.

After mulling over his other choices of wives, and thinking of his name, he asks himself if he truly wishes for Essa to be the mother of his heir.

And he surprises himself with the strength of his confirmation.

Draco floos back to her room with her, silent, and nods when she bids him goodbye. He is almost out her door when she calls back again.

“Thanks for everything. You're pretty cool, y’know?”

He says nothing but closes her door behind him gently, and walks down all the flights of stairs. Right before he enters the kitchen he allows himself to smile, but only once.

She thinks he's cool, whatever that may entail.

His timing is perfect, as always; he arrives right as Father says, “This will be a topic of discussion in the Malfoy Manor,” and stands up.

“Oh, Draco,” Mother exclaims. “You've arrived.”

“Yes, Mother, just now.” He walks over to pull out her chair for her and help with her cloak.

“And what do you think of Vanessa?” Elizabeth Sterling sits up straighter and regards him.

Draco hesitates, glancing at Father out of the corner of his eye and trying to judge his expression. Lucius has a clenched jaw, and his grip on his walking stick is tight.

Mother, on the other hand, is relaxed and smiling almost genuinely.

She seems pleased with the marriage talks, and if the Sterlings have revealed Essa’s parentage, as Father had planned, Mother is in favor of the union despite her American bloodline.

Draco angles his head to Margaret. “I think, Mrs Sterling, that you have raised a daughter capable of bringing a smile to even Severus Snape.”

Margaret noticeably relaxes as the room erupts in laughter. A muscle in Father’s jaw jumps, but Mother presses a kiss to Draco’s cheek.

“If you shall excuse us.”

“Of course, Narcissa,” Elizabeth chirps, posing a stunning resemblance to the cat that got the cream. “I shall show you the way out.”

When they arrive at the grounds, Draco’s parents retreat into the Main Manor stiffly, mouths opening in preparation for a conversation. Draco recognizes this and spends the rest of his afternoon in the library of his own manor.

Whichever choice they come to about the union, they will inform him at supper. He has taken his side, and will await the decision.

 


	5. Chapter Five: The Calm Before The Storm

“Wait, can you give me that one?”

Draco sighs and strains his neck, tugging at his horse’s reins to slow so he can fall into ranks with Essa’s horse. It does obediently, without needing so much of a kick to the side.

He looks to where she is pointing, pushing aside the sight of sunlight lighting up half of her face almost heavenly, and squints.

“Why do you insist on having that one? There are larger ones hanging from lower branches.” Draco transfers the reins to only one hand so he can use his other to gesture at his surrounding orchard.

Essa shrugs, absentmindedly stroking her horse’s mane. She'd been oddly upset when he'd mentioned that the Malfoy horses are unnamed, and had taken it upon herself to bestow each of his horses with a title.

She is riding ‘Chestnut’ and he sits upon ‘Blondie’, his usual horse. He is convinced that she specifically chose his favorite mare to bestow the worst name on in some odd form of spite.

Unlike him or anyone he's ever known, she rides bareback, and when she does, she ties up her hair with a delightful white ribbon engraved with the letter _S_ at the end.

She never is able to make her hair completely neat, and always has a handful of rebellious curls escaping the ribbon. At the end of their rides all the hair that escapes frames her head almost like a halo, not that he has noticed this or anything.

Draco sighs, frowning at the green apple hanging jauntily. He pulls out his wand and flicks it, and a lower apple comes sailing into his palm. “Look, this one is fresh.”

“Alright,” Essa agrees amicably, and reaches out for the apple. However, Draco makes the mistake of looking up at the apple she’d initially wanted, and sighs.

He grumbles a vicious oath under his breath, damning the protective wards that allow only a Malfoy to pick the fruit of their gardens. A spell later, she is crunching happily into her chosen apple, the little minx.

A little voice peeps in his head as he guides his horse forward again with a jab of his heel. _Perhaps in only a few years Essa will be able to pick her own apples._

This is doubtful, for many reasons. One of which maintains that Mother and Father leave him in the dark on the identity of Essa’s father. He has been assured that she is of pure blood, but evidently her father had not been of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Malfoys have married half bloods before, but why settle for a half blood when he could have someone with as pure of blood as Pansy Parkinson, drooling for marriage?

It is for this reason that Father opposes the marriage, but Mother argues that while America does not have the List, her father’s family is worthy of the highest respect, and a union would give the Malfoys influence in not just Europe but America.

Essa has Sacred blood, admittedly tainted, but she is an elegant wizard with a pretty face.

Father had grudgingly compromised; as long as Essa is sorted into Slytherin, he promises Draco, a union will commence after his graduation from Hogwarts.

Draco had agreed, but worries. Essa is not a Slytherin; she is too kindhearted and trusting. He confided in Mother one night, when she'd called him to stop studying in his library for dinner.

She had reassured him. _After all,_ she'd pointed out, _that's what everybody said about Daphne Greengrass, and look at her house now. Ambition does not have to be unkind._

He'd nodded and gone for supper, but his doubts linger. Although Daphne is accepting to a certain degree, she will defend her friends only as long as she deems them worthy. He is certain that once they fall out of her favor she will not hesitate to destroy them.

Essa, he knows, would never provoke nor harm even her mortal enemy without cause.

She does not voice her opinion when he tries to explain the importance of blood purity, but he sees the way her eyes lower and she chews her lip. Say what you will about Daphne, but she knows her position in society.

Yes, Daphne will return smiles to even the dirtiest of Mudbloods, but her gaze passes over them in disinterest, and even Hermione Granger, top of every class, is not worthy of an initiated conversation on her part.

It is only a fortnight from the beginning of September. Draco has spent nearly his every afternoon with Essa, riding horses and picking apples and exploring his pastures, and yet he is no closer to discouraging her blood traitor tendencies.

He is afraid to speak of this with even Mother, for she will surely end talks of the union if she knows. He has even begun to limit his own talk of blood purity, uncomfortable whenever she retreats into herself.

Both Theodore and Daphne recognize this, but they share his viewpoint on the matter: perhaps an exception can be made for Essa, who makes the conversations and days without her seem so frightfully dull. Even Pansy, who they'd ran into at the Three Broomsticks once in July, had had trouble scowling at her, especially when she'd offered a wave and a harmless smile.

And besides, as long as she never expresses her clear acceptance for the dirty blooded, her company will remain enjoyable.

She is an exceptional dueler, and their afternoons together often consist of a brief horse ride to the pastures, where she practices with him and uses spells that he's never dreamed of.

 _My American school has Native American roots, especially in dueling magic,_ she’d explained the first time she'd defeated him in less than half a minute.

When she'd told him that she had been sorted in the House of Warriors in her American wizarding school, he'd nearly laughed. How could sweet, smiling Essa ever become a warrior?

She'd answered his question by leaving him wheezing into the grass after their first duel.

He must admit that his dueling has improved in leaps and bounds since Essa had begun to duel with him; he can now hold his own against her for nearly a minute if she does not use her wand.

Somehow her Quidditch skills are even better, for the way she flies on a broom makes even Krum seem clumsy. A part of him almost wishes for her to be a Hufflepuff, for if she is to be sorted into his house he'd certainly have to apply for another position.

There are times, when the two of them race on a broom and toss the Quaffle back and forth, that she does spins and jumps that make him afraid to watch.

He'd forgotten how fearless the Americans are on brooms; last year at the Quidditch Cup the foreign crowds had gasped and covered their eyes every time a broom had lost a wizard, but every time the player had landed back on perfectly, more often than not with the Quaffle.

He helps her study for their OWLS at times, underneath the cool shade of a tree and with apple cores littering the ground.

She is brilliant, although lacking in the technical terms found in his textbooks. Despite this, her essays are poetic, with magnificent prose worthy of even the most grand of wizard authors.

His essays are stern, words lined up perfectly in neat cursive, facts thrown out one after another just as he has been taught. Her essays paint stories and pictures; she uses turns of phrase he never could have imagined, correctly and with ease.

Draco reads over them sometimes, making notes in the margins about adding in more numbers and references to their textbooks, tracing his fingers over her long, spiky handwriting.

Some of her letters look like dancing spiders. He means this as an insult, but when he tells her she laughs instead, and he supposes that waltzing arachnids do not sound so bad.

Sometimes he exhausts himself by thinking of the number of times he’s tapped her shoulder to ask _what does this word mean?_

At first he’d been hesitant to ask, so daunted by the prospect of being in the position of the lesser power for once, but she hadn’t taunted him once nor blinked at his cluelessness. His vocabulary has tripled in the amount of time that he has sacrificed his vision to her unbecoming handwriting.

She likes to include muggle references, a habit he would dislike immensely if not for the issue that he has become slightly interested in the muggle world.

Once she had allowed him to borrow her copy of sonnets by a man named William Shakespeare, and waited until after he’d finished the entire book to tell him of the poet’s blood status.

“How can a muggle write so brilliantly?” Draco asked her, staring at the spine of the book.

Essa shook her head. “They aren’t as idiotic as you believe, as much as you hate to hear me say it.”

She never asked for the book back, and he refuses to admit that he keeps it hidden in his nightstand and often rereads the muggle poems before bed.

He can see how a younger Essa might have done the same; there are sections underlined in ink and pages folded over at the corners. He pays extra attention to those parts.

Her favorite sonnet keeps him company during nights that Mother and Father argue over one thing or another, and as he receives more and more muggle poems from her, he can see the echoes of their writing in her essays.

“Who is your favorite?” Draco asked once, watching a leaf float gently down to land in the grassy area near Essa’s ankle.

Essa looked to him, tucking a curl behind an ear. The sun, at her back, lit up the edges of her so she seemed like a goddess from the ancient myths his tutor had assigned so many essays on. He nearly forgot his question.

She kept their eyes locked and her voice low, reciting words that painted images in his mind’s eye with broad strokes.

“ _Let the rain kiss you_  
_Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops_  
_Let the rain sing you a lullaby_  
_The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk_  
_The rain makes running pools in the gutter_  
_The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night  
And I love the rain_.”

Draco shivered and kept silent, allowing her words to leave lingering echoes in his head. There were a few words he’d never heard before, and he made a mental note of them. American muggles in particular used such odd language, but it had its own charm.

He was startled to hear her speak again after several moments.

“Langston Hughes.”

“May I borrow your book of him?”

Her fingers tangled with the grass, reminding him of other words that she had given him once. “I will, later.”

There was something vulnerable about the bow of her lip in that instant, and Draco never pressed her about the rain poem, although his insides still ache to see the words in ink.

He thinks about this poem every time it rains, when he hears the drops of water hitting the pavement outside. He imagines Essa sitting at a window, watching a storm and mumbling the words to herself, and wonders.

Mother sometimes finds them when the sun is about to set, with a reminder for Draco to hurry to supper. Essa declines every dinner invitation, always flooing home instead, leaving him with a squeeze to his hand and a knowing smile from Mother.

“You are getting along?” Mother asks at supper often, and Father always watches him carefully, gaze heavy.

Draco nods every time, trying to push down the humiliating flush in his ears.

Sometimes, like now, the heat from the sun becomes much too unbearable, and he leads her back into his manor. She follows, stroking her horse as she dismounts, and ties them back up into the stable.

“Goodbye, Chestnut,” she sings, grinning when he sighs loudly. “Your rider is irritating, Blondie.”

He groans and stalks out of the stable, ignoring her laughter, and instructs a house elf to clean up the horses.

“I don't get it,” Essa’s voice says behind him, her footsteps rushing until she falls into step at his side. “Why don't you ever tan?”

Draco opens his front door for her and ushers her in, pretending not to watch as she shakes her hair out and slips her ribbon onto her slender wrist.

“I take potions that insure my skin will never darken or freckle,” he informs her, pausing to correct his windswept hair in the hallway mirror.

Essa’s laugh is surprising. “You take beauty potions?”

“Of course,” Draco says, keeping his attention firmly on his face in the mirror and not on the laughing vision over his shoulder. “Everyone does.”

This makes her pause. “Even Theodore?”

“I would imagine Theodore to be part of the ‘everyone’ I refer to,” Draco drawls. He finally gives in and glances at her out of the corner of his vision. Her eyes are distant, her lips slightly pursed in thought.

“Does your dad take beauty potions?”

“To do away with the wrinkles and keep his hair long and untangled,” Draco agrees.

“Everybody drinks beauty potions?”

“Nearly everyone at Hogwarts takes some form of a beauty potion, whether it be Acne Do-away or Nose Slimmer.”

“Nose Slimmer?” she repeats, a hint of a smile in her voice.  

Draco nods solemnly. “Pansy needs all the help she can get.”

She exclaims his name, swatting his shoulder with no real force, and he grins, catching her expression in the mirror. Her mouth is open in shock, but he can see the laughter creeping up around her eyes and sneaking over the corners of her lips.

He looks back to himself and is startled for a moment; with his hair still slightly ruffled, and an uncharacteristic flush on his face from the summer heat, he almost does not recognize himself in the mirror. He has never seen himself flash that many teeth in a smile before.

Draco is carefree, silver eyes bright, and he looks back at Essa in almost absentminded shock. She is giggling now, a hand over her mouth in an attempt to hold the sounds back, and he feels himself laugh.

The noise is unfamiliar, noisy and sharp, but she joins him, and he turns from the mirror, the two of them laughing in a way that makes his sides ache.

He has never done this before, not with anybody, and when she links her arm through his and traces a familiar path to his library, he feels dizzy and very warm.

He wishes for the summer to never end.

This is the first year that he is not looking forward to Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some consideration, I have decided to post continuous updates of this fic every Friday. There will be a series, and I plan for it to extend it all the way through -- yes, I know -- a Wizarding War.
> 
> The reason for this is pretty simple: in order for Draco to overcome his prejudice, one pretty girl won't be enough. Rowling writes that a large part of his change has to do with seeing his beliefs come true, and realizing that actually walking the walk and talking the talk, so to speak, isn't what he imagined. For this to happen, I think a Wizarding War, Voldemort and all, is important.
> 
> With that being said, I think it'll be interesting to write the War with James & Lily Potter leading and Sirius & Remus coming together all the while. I have a lot of work cut out for me, but I'll try my best not to miss any updates.
> 
> As always, any suggestions/critiques are welcomed!


	6. Chapter Six: The End of The Beginning

Pansy drapes herself over him on the Prefects’ Carriage, drawing sideways glances from the rest of the Prefects. Potter and Granger exchange a look as Draco peels Pansy’s fingers from his wrist.

Throughout the night patrol scheduling discussions, Draco cannot help but think of Essa’s overwhelming potential of being sorted into Hufflepuff, and how she deserves the Prefect status more than Hannah Abbott.

“I can patrol the first floor,” Draco says, ignoring the shocked looks he receives. “I don't find any interest at all with Gryffindor Tower.”

“It's our turf though,” Macmillan points out.

Draco raises an eyebrow. “You'd rather Granger sniff around your Common Room, then?”

“We Hufflepuffs never break curfew. There's no point wasting Prefects to patrol our area. The Gryffindors, on the other hand…” Abbott glances at Potter.

Potter scoffs. “Please, don't waste the patrols on us.” He sends an unreturned grin to Granger. “No self-respecting Gryffindor would be caught breaking curfew by a Slytherin.”

“Enough, the two of you,” the Head Boy announces. “Malfoy, you have your First Floor patrols.”

Draco allows himself a triumphant smirk, but his insides churn. It is unlikely for Essa to make Slytherin over Hufflepuff, but either way he is close enough to both houses’ common rooms, just in case.

His nerves persist until he reaches the Hogwarts grounds for the first time in nearly three months, and settles into the Slytherin table together with Theodore and Daphne. Over the summer the two of them had warmed up to Essa, and all three students are anxious to see her in their house.

“She's too interesting for Hufflepuff,” Theodore murmurs, “but not crooked enough for Slytherin.”

Daphne bites at her lip. “It would be nice to have a Slytherin girl as a friend.”

Draco says nothing but watches as a large group of First Years are herded in by McGonagall. Sticking out obviously over them is Essa, dark hair pulled up elegantly.

Her skin glitters gold, from all the sun she has soaked in over the summer, and she is immersed in conversation with several First Years. She seems oblivious to the stares.

Dumbledore makes his usual speech, and even that is not enough to send Draco back from the edge of his seat. He can see Potter and Weasley, along with most of the other Gryffindors, watching her.

The professors are murmuring amongst themselves; even Snape spares Essa a short glance. Lupin and Black are muttering, thick as thieves, but Potter is missing.

“Professor Potter will only join Professor Black in handling Duelling Club on Wednesday's and Friday's due to the birth of his newborn child,” Dumbledore announces, and several Gryffindors turn to smack a grinning Potter on the back.

“In other news, before we allow the Sorting Ceremony to commence, we shall welcome our newest transfer from the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Vanessa Sterling.”

Polite applause echoes in the Hall. “She will be sorted into her house first.”

Essa steps up and allows McGonagall to place the Sorting Hat on her head. Her eyes slip shut. Low voices murmur, and Theodore leans in.

“Five galleons on Slytherin.”

Daphne sighs, but keeps her gaze on Essa; she knows better than to stop the unstoppable.

Draco raises an eyebrow. “I put five galleons on Hufflepuff.”

“You won't be able to marry her then,” Theodore points out.

Draco swallows the untimely lump in his throat, watching the way Essa’s shoes gently toe at the rung of the stool. “O ye of little faith,” he says, “I will find a way to make it happen regardless.”

“You have started to say odd things,” Theodore remarks. “Quirky little phrases that I've heard before from a certain someone. Might it come from the girl that you spend time with nearly every-”

The Sorting Hat cuts him off. Draco is holding his breath, hopeful despite the odds.

“This one’s a _Hufflepuff_!”

The Hufflepuffs go mad, screaming and pounding the table. Ernie Macmillan himself hugs Essa as she approaches, bringing her to sit snugly in between Abbott and Zacharias Smith.

“Here you go,” Theodore says, and Draco tears his eyes away from the normally background Hufflepuff table. In Theodore’s hand are five glittering galleons.

As he stuffs them into his pocket he sees Lupin doing the same thing and looking smug, whereas Black is saying something so quickly his mouth is a blur.

“Congratulations, you won the bet,” Daphne says glumly, watching as Susan Bones wraps Essa into a tight hug.

Draco fingers the galleons in his pocket, but he feels none of his victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, but I'm in the process of writing the sequel.


	7. Behind the Scenes: Remus Lupin and Sirius Black

Remus had heard, of course, about the exchange student. 

Sirius had laughed bitterly when he brought it up. “Never liked the Sterlings,” he’d told him after a glass or three of Firewhiskey that night. “Especially not old Margaret. Looked like a bleached vulture, that one did.”

After a few more glasses, Remus had been able to coax out a more complete character study of Margaret Sterling, the exchange student’s mother; she was only a few years younger than them, so she must have had her daughter very early --  even younger than James and Lily. She would've still been a Hogwarts student, thereby explaining the way she'd discontinued her education so suddenly after her Fifth Year.

Sirius’s face darkened when Remus mentioned it. “Purebloods breed like pigs -- the earlier you fuck out a heir, the better. Good to know that she found an American Pureblood to spawn with.”

Remus decided to ignore the nasty imagery. "Madam Puddifoot told me yesterday that someone at the bar had told her-"

"That the American's dead? Figures."

That was all Sirius had been willing to say about the Sterlings. Being a Black, he’d attended quite a few banquets, but he never did like to share with Remus or James about the details. He knew a lot about the dirtier in and outs of the Pureblood circles, having grown up in them, and sometimes when Remus got the Firewhiskey flowing he shared a few drunken details.

The Sterlings, Remus knew, were a powerful wizarding family, having found fortune in swindling kings and queens of centuries past. He taught both Gretchen and Garrick Sterling; they looked like each other and said the same things during class. He had never much enjoyed teaching Slytherins, even if they were combined with the Gryffindors, and the Sterlings in particular made his time much worse.

This was why Remus was pleasantly amused when he saw the tall, lithe girl standing out from the sea of First Years.

“Look at Sterling’s daughter,” he murmured to Sirius, who put down his glass long enough to wipe his mouth and look up. Remus delighted in the sudden nature his bushy eyebrows shot up.

“Lucky girl. She doesn’t look a bit like her mother.” Sirius looked around the Hall, and grinned. “Should we be worried that Harry’s staring?”

“Everyone is,” Remus dismissed, but hid a laugh in the way that Harry was, in fact, in awe. His mouth was slightly open and his glasses had slipped down his nose. Next to him, Ron Weasley was mirroring his expression.

Sirius shook his head. “He looks like Prongs seeing Lily for the first time, do you remember?”

“If my memory serves me right, they hated each other at first glance.”

“And Lily likes to say that I’m the one who’s numb to romance.”

Remus smiled at this and studied his students carefully. He had to admit that Sterling’s daughter had a sort of childish cuteness, tanned and freckled and looking an awful lot like the common American muggle “girl-next-door” dream. If his eyes unfocused enough he could almost recognize her from somewhere.

“I’ll make sure to keep Harry away from her during dueling practice,” Sirius muttered. “She doesn't look like the fighting type though.”

“I don’t think she’ll be a Gryffindor-”

“Oh, no,” Sirius said, agreeing for once. His mouth twisted. “She’ll be a Slytherin, that one. Raised by Margaret, and looking like that? There isn't a chance that she hasn’t learned the tricks of the trade.”

Remus disagreed. She was a Sterling -- he knew of it -- but he'd seen that family, and she didn't belong there. There was an innocence to the way she talked to the First Years, an unspoiled naivety that resulted in bright cheerfulness. He tried to place his finger on it. Perhaps it was the little quirky smile, or the tilt of her head as she leaned down to listen to the children around her. Either way, it drew in the boys like flies to honey. Even the Ravenclaw boys were interested.

“She’ll be a Hufflepuff," he said confidently.

Sirius snorted. “How much have you got on you? I’ll bet everything on Slytherin.”

Remus sighed and felt in his pocket for spare coins, showing the assortment of Knuts and Sickles to his friend. “My money’s on Hufflepuff.”

Dumbledore cruised leisurely through his speech, pausing to announce the reason behind James’s absence. Remus thought of his goddaughter, no doubt being smothered under James’s attention at that very moment.

“In other news, before we allow the Sorting Ceremony to commence, we shall welcome our newest transfer from the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Vanessa Sterling. She will be sorted into her house first.”

Remus noted the way she walked. Her movements were sure and her balance perfectly centered; she moved like a natural dueler. That cheerfulness turned into confidence, despite the amount of eyes on her, and he began to question his judgement. Perhaps she really was a Slytherin, and her innocence was a carefully manufactured mask. She was, after all, a Sterling...

The Hat took less than a minute to decide, and Sirius stretched in his chair so he could see, breathing lightly on the back of Remus’s neck the entire time

There were quite a few whispered conversations, most notably one from the Slytherin table. Remus glanced up to find Draco Malfoy’s gaze boring into Vanessa Sterling, intense. There was something there -- something uncharacteristic -- Remus struggled to place his finger on it-

“This one’s a  _Hufflepuff_!”

Amidst the cheers, McGonagall leaned back into her chair. When Remus glanced sideways at her, she turned her head.

"You saw it as well?"

She shrugged and took a sip of gillywater. "She was of high standing in Ilvermorny's warrior house," she replied. "Not to mention that she's the spitting image of her father. It's uncanny. Either way, she would have benefited our house greatly."

Before Remus could ask the question on the tip of his tongue, Sirius groaned and slid a handful of coins into his hand, stealing his attention.

“Damn,” he said, taking a quick gulp of whatever was in his glass, “I thought for sure you’d be wrong, Moony.”

Remus tucked away his spoils, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean,” Sirius continued, “I don’t remember a single Sterling not sorted into Slytherin. Sterlings are  _always_  Slytherins. Odd, don’t you think? You can’t do away with the fact that she was raised as an American. They are more open-minded about some things... though I thought for sure Margaret would have spoiled her in some fashion.”

“Or maybe she’s just a little bit like you,” Remus pointed out calmly, watching as Vanessa's tie changed colors. He had been right about her genuine attitude. Her smile stretched across her face and bore no trace of her mother as she was seated at her table.

Sirius followed his gaze. Remus wondered what he saw in the girl. “You believe so?”

“We’ll have to see, Sirius. The Sorting Hat does not make mistakes often.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a long period of silence, I've decided to get back into this fic. I know the sequel has been dormant for some time, but I've been busy rewriting old chapters and writing new ones. Anyways, here's a quick behind the scenes oneshot for you before I update the second book in this series :)


	8. Chapter 8

The first time Daphne saw death was when her father killed a rabbit on their estate. He’d forced her to watch, and when she cried, he beat her. There’d been something about the rabbit’s glassy eyes that haunted her for weeks afterwards.  
  
“Don’t cry,” Father had said, over and over as his cane came down on her outstretched hand. “Do you want to be a Hufflepuff?”   
  
“No,” she’d whimpered, and Mother had stood in the doorway with Astoria, nodding grimly. Hufflepuffs were weak. Daphne did not want to be a Hufflepuff.   
  
It was through lessons like these that she’d learned how to be strong. Strength didn’t mean anger or rudeness, she knew, but it meant playing your cards close to your chest. Strength meant that the slightest tremble of your lip would encourage ridicule.   
  
Strength was not wrestling matches with Azzy over sweets or toys. Strength was hiding the toys, or giving the sweets to your friends so your sister couldn’t have any. In this way, there would be no window for failure, no chance to humiliate yourself by crying for your mother if your younger sister knocked a tooth out.   
  
Gryffindors were strong but careless, Hufflepuffs were kind but weak, and Ravenclaws were intelligent but naive. Slytherins were the strong, loyal, intelligent, and ambitious. They were the ones that made change in the world.   
  
So on the first day of Hogwarts, Daphne Greengrass told the hat that she wanted to be a Slytherin.   
  
“ _I can see your ambition_ ,” the hat had replied, “ _but you could be an outstanding Gryffindor_.”   
  
This came as somewhat of a shock. She’d prepared arguments against Hufflepuff, but she’d never imagined being sorted into the thoughtless, headstrong house. What would her parents say if they knew their oldest daughter was an irrational idiot?   
  
“ _Oh, some Gryffindors are extremely clever indeed. You’d find that they may even in some ways be more ambitious! They are quite like Slytherins, although they do tend to have a, er, stricter moral agenda_. ”   
  
Nearly in tears, Daphne had begged and begged for Slytherin. Eventually, the hat relented, and sorted her into her family’s house. Azzy arrived at her table two years later.   
  
A part of her wondered if the hat had seen something inside of her she never would. Perhaps she’d doomed another Daphne inside of her the second she’d stepped onto that Sorting stool.   
  
Maybe that was why she fell in love with Theodore so recklessly; he wasn’t an approved match and was far from the best, but she was drawn to the way his snide humor often fell at odds with his rare gentleness.   
  
It appeared only once in a blue moon, sometimes manifesting itself only in a sweet smile or even a soft touch. Other times it was a grand gesture -- once, he’d snuck into the girls dorms and stayed up the entire night just because she'd fallen ill. She was sure that nobody else had held her hand so tightly up until then.   
  
These moments made her see the world differently. Harry Potter or Professor Black, even, might’ve shared the same kinds of moments with a special girl. Daphne just didn’t have the privilege to see them that way.   
  
But try as she might, she never could imagine Draco like that.   
  
When they were younger, he would whine and complain, at least. But it was sometime after second year when he truly began to shut down every emotional bone in his body.

It wasn’t that he was selfish or inherently unkind; they’d been friends for years, and although she knew that he carried himself highly, he treated his mother with great duty and respect.  
  
Great love, Daphne knew, was an unconditional and thoughtless sort of thing. Draco was the type of boy whose love was considered and earned -- he loved his mother because she raised him, and because she loved him in return.  
  
Even after their years of friendship, Daphne could never be sure if Draco loved her or not (as a friend, of course). She felt as though she had proved herself worthy of his respect, but not, oddly, of his love.  
  
Theodore was afraid of love. He’d learned, like her, that love was a weakness, a target to be exploited. He loved her only when there was nobody there to hurt him.  Draco was the same way, but more polarized. He hid not just his love but his respect; his smiles were covered by sneers or scoffs. He pushed people away before they could love him so he would never experience the loss of it, and most of all, he never welcomed emotions.  
  
“Draco’s not as strong as he thinks,” Theodore had told her once. She’d wondered aloud if Draco even thought of them as friends.  
  
“He is strong though,” she pointed out. “He doesn’t need anyone to be happy.”  
  
“Is he happy?”  
  
“Are you happy?”  
  
“Sometimes,” Theodore said, giving her a rare smile and ducking his chin right afterwards. She felt her face soften and chided herself. This boy made her lose control.  
  
On the other hand, that was the issue with Draco: his control never slipped. His steely gray eyes never flickered or hesitated. He knew what he wanted, and would stop at nothing to get it. He was, in every way, the perfect Slytherin.  
  
She worried about him sometimes, that Draco never confided in her. One day something inside of him would burst, she thought, and nobody would be safe. She was one of the people who knew him the best, behind only by Theodore, but she knew him so little.  
  
And then he’d met Essa.  
  
At first, Essa was the type of girl that Daphne knew she would hate. Nobody at the age of fourteen should’ve looked the way she did, and having such pure blood only made heightened her appeal. She was pretty much Pansy's ideal self.  
  
The worst part was her personality. She’d escaped the toxic Pureblood culture and the idea of emotional weakness. Essa was strong because of her heart -- she was the very antithesis of Draco. To her, love was something that everything deserved, and she would only take hers away if one proved himself unworthy (and maybe not even then). In her world, the benefit of the doubt was predetermined.  
  
Draco had been interested in her from the very beginning, and even Theodore had eyed her more than once at that banquet. It was the first time Daphne could relate to Pansy as she stewed across the table.  
  
Draco had talked to her the entire night. He was interested, and it showed on his face. The other families stayed clear of the smug Sterlings -- a Malfoy had made his curiosity known, and when it came to Draco, the sole legitimate heir of the Black-Malfoy name? Well, nobody else stood a chance.  
  
That interest had been physical at first, and then curious. It was nothing too out of the ordinary, just enough for the others to raise an eyebrow and chuckle at.  _That Malfoy boy_ , Father had said bemusedly after the banquet,  _snared by a pretty face._  
  
And then she’d met them at the Three Broomsticks.  
  
She’d known Draco practically since birth and she'd never seen him so out of control. He walked Essa to and back from the table; he leaned forward when she talked; he even smiled at her jokes. In one day, Essa Sterling had done what Daphne couldn’t in more than a decade. Even Theodore, usually a bit more aloof towards the emotional side of things, had noticed.  
  
This was actually her strength, Daphne mused later. She made you feel important, showed you love and kindness. She trusted that you would not abuse it. And somehow, it worked.  
  
Daphne was invited to go shopping with her on her birthday, only a few weeks after they’d first met. She’d prepared herself to be cautious but she could see nothing in the other girl’s eyes that indicated her attitude was a facade. It wasn’t until afterwards that she realized with a shock how much she’d enjoyed her company -- even though they’d gone to a crowded muggle store!  
  
Perhaps it was the Gryffindor side of her taking over, but Daphne began to trust Essa. She was somewhat of a blood traitor, but an unspoken agreement hung in the air: _let’s not talk about it_. And besides, she was completely pure. What was the worst that could happen?  
  
Throughout the months, the two girls spent time together. She’d missed talking with someone openly, even though she had Theodore. He just didn’t understand, sometimes, that she didn’t often care for advice, but instead craved his support.  
  
Draco was changing too: he was losing that cold, biting side to him. He still didn’t respond to the outside world with love, as Essa so thoughtlessly did, but he no longer responded with hate either.

As far as anyone could tell, that was progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this theory that what Hogwarts house you're in doesn't really determine your actual characteristics. Let me justify this: take Hermione. Based on just what she's like (curious, intelligent, smart) pretty much anyone would assume she's a Ravenclaw. My theory is that you get sorted into whichever house whose characteristics MATTER MOST TO YOU. Yes, Hermione values knowledge, but that thirst isn't as strong as her determination to be on the right side of history. That isn't to say that the other house members don't care for fighting; it's just that they would are motivated by different reasons to do so. 
> 
> That is to say, Hufflepuffs can be ambitious and cunning -- just as Slytherins can be kind, Gryffindors can be shy, and Ravenclaws can be lazy. Cedric tries to beat Harry during the Quidditch match, but offers to concede when he realizes the reason behind his win. In this example, you can see that although he is ambitious enough to fight for a victory, he still values fairness first, thus making him a Hufflepuff. A Slytherin might have been concerned for Harry, but not willing to give him an "unjust" win. Harry himself might not have done what Cedric did, if the roles had been reversed. You can see another example of this in the Malfoys. Although loyalty is most often a trait associated with Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, their loyalties to their family motivates everything. It is difficult to earn the loyalty of a Slytherin, but once one does, it is difficult to lose. Take Narcissa, lying straight to the Dark Lord about Harry's state of survival -- all for Draco. Take Draco himself, leaving the side that he supports in the last battle -- all for his family. 
> 
> These two examples of extreme bravery are almost Gryffindor-esque, but it just goes to show that set characteristics are not present in Hogwarts houses. And that long essay is the reason behind why I think Essa could get along with Draco, Theodore, Daphne, and even some other Slytherins that she doesn't agree with: she values friendship, and although she would feel guilty about not doing anything about their conservative thoughts, she wouldn't be willing to make a scene about it. That's going to be her fatal flaw throughout this series. Feel free to let me know what you guys think!


End file.
